The House of the Stone

Frederic reluctantly removes my handcuffs and leash. I rub my neck.

He disappears into the room—I see a glimpse of more white dresses before the door closes behind him. The Countess, the old man, and I continue walking. We come to a set of double doors, guarded by a footman, who springs to attention as we approach.

“One moment,” the Countess says as the footman moves to open the doors. She turns to me. “You will not speak. You will not eat more than three bites of anything that is served. Three. I will be counting. Do not try to communicate with the other surrogates in any way. Break any of these rules and I will cut out your tongue. Do you understand me?”

I nod right away, partly because I believe she’ll actually do it, and partly because she said other surrogates. There are other surrogates here. Could I be lucky enough to see Violet so soon?

“Good,” she says.

The footman opens the doors.

“The Countess of the Stone,” he announces. “And surrogate.”





Four


WE ENTER AN ENORMOUS DINING ROOM.

The walls are maroon and there are candles covering every available surface, as well as filling the chandelier hanging above our heads. All the wood is dark and polished to a high sheen. It’s as if the decorator were going for a look that said, “I am powerful and evil.” Which, who knows, the woman who owns this place probably is. There are lots of fancy flower arrangements, and a table with bottles of liquor, and large windows, but my main focus is on the other people in the room.

The other surrogates, really. I couldn’t care less about the royalty.

I recognize both of them from the Waiting Room. One is the blonde whose stylist felt compelled to create a giant beehive on the top of her head. She looks a lot more normal now, her hair falling down her back in big bouncy curls. The other one, the dark-skinned girl with all the braids who seems like she could kill you just by looking at you, is standing beside an old woman in a red dress. Unsurprisingly, she glares at me when we make eye contact. Or maybe not. Maybe her face is just stuck like that.

No Violet.

I shouldn’t be disappointed.

A young woman, with skin nearly as dark as Cranky Face, swoops over to the Countess and plants a kiss on either cheek. Just touching the Countess’s skin seems repulsive, but kissing her? I think I might throw up.

“Ebony,” she exclaims. “I am so glad you came.”

The Countess smiles. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you to face this dinner alone, Alexandrite.”

Ugh, where do they come up with these names?

“She must be very confident this year,” the younger royal says.

“I am not concerned,” the Countess replies.

The other woman looks me over, much the way a farmer might examine a horse. “She’s so thin,” she says. “Are you sure she can handle it?”

“Physical strength isn’t as important as mental fortification,” the Countess says. “I’m sure Dr. Falme will have no trouble with fertilization.”

The word makes me itch, like a spider crawling up my back. But I can’t help noticing this woman didn’t refer to me as it. Does no one else call their surrogates that? It occurs to me that I might have gotten the absolute worst royal in the entire Jewel. That what I’ve gone through today is, in fact, not the norm.

Or maybe it’s just not polite to call your surrogate it in public.

The door we came in through opens again and the footman practically shouts at us with excitement.

“Her Royal Grace, the Electress. And surrogate.”

In unison, the royal women sink into a curtsy. Blondie, Cranky Face, and I follow suit. This dress is really too tight to be curtsying in. And I never got the hang of all that stupid etiquette stuff anyway.

“Ebony,” the Electress says once it’s clear we’re allowed to straighten up. “How lovely to see you again so soon.”